Page 80 of Reckless Vow

“How are you doing?”

He kisses my inner thighs. The right. The left. My stomach through the delicate fabric. For a no kissing rule, he definitely loves using that mouth of his.

“Brook?”

Oh, right. “What was the question?”

He chuckles. “How are you doing?”

“I want more.”

Now he laughs. It’s such a wonderful sound. I reach to remove the scarf because I want to see him.

But he grabs my wrist. “You keep that on, or there will be no more.”

I groan in frustration, but fuck it, I’ll gladly compromise if Baldo Cassinetti sweeps me into nirvana again.

“Ready for our game?”

“You mean your game?” I scramble to maintain a semblance of sovereignty.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy it.” His breath is by my ear, startling me. “Wait for me, Brook.”

It’s strange to lie on the cold table, my arousal dripping down my skin, but it’s also arousing. Maybe it’s the after-bliss. Or perhaps Baldo’s undeniable talent.

And now I’m thinking about the women he honed his skills with. Before I can go down that particular path, his footsteps approach and a chair scrapes across the floor again.

He kisses my temple. “Hands above your head.”

I don’t understand how his commands shoot desire into every fiber of my body. But I obey, and he runs his hands up my arms to my hands. The chair screeches again and then I feel its backrest.

He closes my palms around it, making me grip it.

“I will make you come again and again, but you have to be a good girl and keep your hands there. Hold on to the chair if you need to, but when you move your arms, I’m going to stop.”

“That’s torture.”

“That’s surrender, baby. And the reward is worth it.”

My brain misfires as he takes my nipple into his mouth. I almost regret not being naked, but even through the fabric, the sensation is electric.

I move my hands to hold on to his hair, but I stop myself. Good thing he gave me the chair. While I was holding it before, now I grip it with white-knuckled force as Baldo’s hand joins in, paying attention to my other nipple, twisting and squeezing.

I’m a mess in no time. I moan, arch, and rub my thighs, seeking friction. Without thinking, my hand reaches for him and then he’s gone.

“Fuuuuuck,” I whine, and the bastard chuckles. “Come back,” I snap.

“Hands on the chair.” His voice startles me as it comes from a different direction than I expected.

Groaning, I grab the chair and immediately moan when something soft trails up my legs. A feather?

Oh my god. I’m going to die here. The best way to go.

The blindfold forces me to guess what’s coming, anticipating, latently fearing and welcoming his next move, his touch, his ministration.

It’s a perfect scenario for someone like me who normally stays in their own head when having sex.

Like often, I’d narrate intercourse in my head, but not with Baldo.

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